


Good Nights

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ed's a little drunk, and Alfons is a little doomed.</p>
<p>[Spoilers for '03/CoS.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Meant to be set just before the movie… and HAPPY SEVENTEENTH TO [A WONDERFUL WHIPPERSNAPPER](http://steelandsparks.tumblr.com/). ♥
> 
>  
> 
> _I wonder what I am made for  
>  If I’m not meant to be with you_
> 
> – “The Shore” – Woodkid –

If only the good nights could last forever—if only the engine could just keep growling; if only the road could just keep unfurling; if only the headlamps could just keep pouring two white streams into the dark.  If only every night could be a county fair with a heart-stoppingly, stomach-leapingly, fear-crushingly perfect rocket launch.  If only the skies could stay this clear; if only Ed could keep laughing lightly from the backseat, and the dawn and Munich and the end of the elation would never come.

“Hey-hey-hey,” Ed says, leaning forward to prod with a fingertip between Alfons’s shoulder-blades.  “Pull over.”

“Why?” Alfons asks.  He _is_ a scientist, after all.  You can’t work without data.  “Are you going to be sick?  _Please_ do it over the side.  Carefully.  It ruins the paint.”

“Don’t even want to know how you know that,” Ed says.  “I just wanna stretch my legs.  Leg.  Whatever.”

Alfons glances over at the rather nondescript grassy field to which Ed is pointing so emphatically.  “Exactly how drunk are you, Ed?”

“I’m not _drunk_ ,” Ed says.  “I’m… well-hydrated.”

“Alcohol is dehydrating; that’s why hangov—”

“Well—well, you were drinking, too!”  He says this as though it’s some sort of triumphant revelation that _Germans_ like _beer_.

And Alfons… loves him for that.  For his enthusiasm.  For how much everything Ed says _matters_ to him, even though he talks about his life like it’s an ever-expanding fog of gray ash leaching all the color from his skin.

“Barely,” Alfons says.

“Barley,” Ed says, and giggles.  “Y’know, barley hops… You should teach me how to drive.”

“Not while you’re well-hydrated,” Alfons says.

“I meant in _general_.  I dunno.  One of these days.”

There is a part of Alfons that trembles at the power of _one of these days_.  There is a part of him that knows that his days are limited—numbered, allotted, measured out.  Anything he pushes past tomorrow may never happen; most of ‘those days’ will never arrive.  Hell, _tomorrow_ might not come.

“I’m not sure,” Alfons says.  “I get the feeling that you driving might end badly.”

“What?” Ed says.  “No way.  It’d be exciting.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Alfons says.

“C’mon,” Ed says.  “Just pull over on the side.  I’m getting antsy.”

“Is that your way of saying you need to pee?” Alfons asks.  “You’re not allowed to do that in the car either.”

“Jesus, Alfons!” Ed says.  “I wasn’t raised in a barn!  I mean, I almost was, except stupid bastard Hohenheim was so hoity-toity he couldn’t be arsed to get an honest farm.  Come _on_.  I just wanna take a breather and see the stars for a little while.”

Breathing and stargazing.  Alfons can’t really argue with that, can he?

“All right,” he says.  “You win.”

Ed flings both arms in the air and whoops.  It’s hard to deny him anything when he’s like this—that is, happy.  Drunk Ed is different from regular Ed—louder, effusive, congenial, open.  His eyes stay guarded, but they gleam a little, and the grimness is gone from the sharp lines of his face.  Alfons tends to think he’s realer like this—that this is what Ed is actually like; what he _was_ like, before… well, _before_.  Before his life flipped, and his world darkened; before he forgot how to laugh sober; before some supernova sent him here.

Alfons slows the car and guides it over to the shoulder of the road, jimmying the stubborn gearshift as the tires summon a considerable cloud of dust.

“How’s this?” he asks.

“Perfect,” Ed says dreamily.  He swings the door open and scampers out.  “Hey, c’mon!”

And that is how Alfons Heiderich, who has always made the safe bets, who has always toed the line with mathematical precision, who has always played by the _corollaries_ to the rules, ends up running through some unfenced field in the countryside at midnight, chasing after a boy who thinks he’s from another planet.

As suddenly as he bolted, however, Ed disappears.

Alfons skids to a stop.  The grass grows higher than his waist out here, and it hisses and rustles and ripples around him as far as he can see.  Where the hell did Ed go?

“Not funny,” he calls, turning slowly, trying to squint hard enough to make out shapes among the seeming infinity of stalks in the dark.

“You kidding?” Ed’s voice asks from a little ways to his right.  “It’s hilarious.”

“Ha, ha,” Alfons says.  He watches the ground carefully as he tracks Ed’s voice; much as Ed might benefit from being stepped on a bit, he’d probably whine about it.

Ed’s lying on the ground with his hands folded on his chest, looking fairly beatific and more than a little inebriated.  “Hey, lie down,” he says.  “It’s nice.  The sky’s nice.”

Alfons sighs, sits, and then carefully shifts to settle on his back.  “It’s very nice.”

“So’re you,” Ed says contentedly.

Alfons watches him for a moment.  He doesn’t have any idea, does he?  For someone so stone-cold brilliant, Ed can be _impressively_ stupid.

But then, almost everything about him is a contradiction—the callousness somehow rooted in compassion; the vast wells of knowledge interspersed with pockets of staggering ignorance; the way he oscillates between frenzied energy and miserable listlessness.  It’s one of the things that makes him so bewildering—and so dangerous. He’s a puzzle, and Alfons is a scientist. It’s a match made to madden them both.

“Hey,” Ed says. He raises his right hand towards the sky and spreads the stiff fingers. “You ever think about how small we are?”

“Frequently,” Alfons says.

Ed lets his arm fall. “I mean, it’s depressing—the insignificance, I mean—but it’s kind of comforting, too. ’Cause this is our place in the universe, right? This is where we’re supposed to be, and this is what we’re supposed to be doing. And in the grand scheme of things, we’ve got no time, and no power, but that’s… nice. You know? If you can accomplish just a couple things, positively impact just a couple people—that’s a net gain. And then you’ve done something _good_ with your tiny little foothold in the flow.” His voice softens, and he smiles. “You don’t have to go down in history to be a hero.”

Alfons can see half the night in Ed’s eyes. “Do you have a favorite star?” he asks.

“Nah,” Ed says. “They’re all…” He gestures unhelpfully. “…new.” It shouldn’t be possible for his grin to be so bright. “But I have a favorite astronomer.”

Alfons has composed a long list over the years. “Really? Who?”

Ed’s elbow nudges at his arm. “ _You_ , dummy.”

Alfons blinks several times. “But…”

“But nothing,” Ed says. He rolls deftly up onto his knees, plants his right hand in the dirt by Alfons’s shoulder, and leans in to seal his hot mouth over Alfons’s for a long, long, long moment of bliss, terror, and oblivion.

“Oh,” Alfons says into the shared breath between them as they pull apart. Ed’s eyes above him are almost silver in this light.

“You,” Ed says, “ _are_ going down in history. Bet my other arm.”

He twists away again, rising fluidly, and offers Alfons a hand once he’s on on his feet. That’s the real Ed, too, isn’t it? The one who’s in control of every muscle, moving like a serpent with a broad wink and a knife’s-edge smile?

But somehow Alfons doesn’t hesitate to clasp his fingers around Ed’s wrist so that Ed can haul him upright.

“Is that how you lost the first one?” Alfons asks. “Betting?”

“Pretty close,” Ed says. “Where the hell’s the car? I don’t want you to pass out before we get home.”

Has he ever called it ‘home’ before? Alfons can’t quite remember.

To be honest, Alfons is having trouble remembering much of anything except the tingle of Ed’s tongue against his lips.

“I think it’s…” Pointing seems to be easier than speaking so far.

Ed catches his hand again and knits their fingers together tight.

“Well?” he says. “Lead the way.”

If only the good nights could just go _on_.


End file.
